The Last of Summer Still Lingers Here
by Dancce
Summary: Sometimes you have to fight to carve out your place in the world.Idrielle is talented, subtle and competent,and he keeps secrets from everyone.But for dark minds there are dark worlds,where the rules are different than in the light.Meet a master player...
1. The Wheelchair

**A/N:** Hi. :) Here I go again, with another one of my surreal concoctions. Please, if you like Idrielle and his story, review and let me know. It really makes me happy, and every writer is a sucker for praise. You know it. :D Grab something hot to drink, muffle up in your favorite blanket, and enjoy this tale on one of these cold, snowy winter evenings. If there is no snow for you... well, I bet there is some icy juice in your fridge. ;D

**Disclaimer:** The Forgotten Realms as a whole don't belong to me. However, all the names, characters, places, spells, things, creatures and simply everything you don't recognize belongs to me and me alone. Don't touch! Idrielle will hex you, the shiivi will leech out your soul, Avernon-l'Arque will sue you and Araltar will drown you in petitions! And you really don't want to know what Midnight will do... :D

**I. The Wheelchair**

**25 of Eleasis 1361 DR, the Year of Maidens**

There was nothing, Idrielle thought as he silently kept on packing his bag, that would force him to bow. Nothing. And if no-one lived to recognize his right for an independent mind, it was all the more important for him to hold on to his self-esteem.

Even it that meant breaking bonds he had been drilled to respect.

Even if that meant leaving Sealtriel on his own.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and, stopping in the doorway, looked one last time at his room.

The chamber was large. Once, it had been a chamber fit for a noble of the highest birth, with the walls paneled in light, creamy wood and the canopied bed spacious enough to accommodate four persons, its covers deep red and mahogany and intricately embroidered with golden threads. Next to the bed, on the left, a window taller than he was had offered a breath-taking view of solicitously maintained gardens. The rugs, imported from Calimshan and other worlds, had soothed the eye with their rich greens and golds. The vaulted ceiling, painted blue with silver patterns of stars both local and foreign, had the Great Wheel imprinted on the background, the mercury links between the planes glowing softly at night. Books had lined the polished shelves, bound in dark leather, bright silk, in thin plates of precious metal. Paintings of scenes and wonders never seen, never dreamed of on the Prime Material had hung around the room, their authors ones of the most famous otherwordly artists ever known. They'd hung there so casually, a portrait of a dark-eyed, proud githyanki princess, her face sharp and beautiful in the way that a hurricane is beautiful; a panorama of a fiery castle situated in the ever-changing landscape of flames in Ignan; an underwater city with high, slim towers of blue-gray stone covered in patches of green moss, the embracing, alien ocean all turquoise and tranquil and lovely – all of them beloved, all of them acquired during travels distant and unbelievable, during dearest adventures well worth their danger and exertion, yet not awe-inspiring nor uncommon for residents of this house in those times.

There was nothing of the former splendor left in that room now, only wounded pride, deep nostalgia, a sense of profound loss. Gone were most of the rugs, sold for ridiculous fragments of their actual value to keep bread in the larder. The walls cracked and distorted in some places over the years. The expensive armchairs went to auction, all the servants were dismissed, the gardens grew wild, ivy covered the white plaster outside and some of it even fought its way into the room itself. There was poverty and there was bitterness. But the books and the paintings stayed.

And everywhere, everywhere the air of a mage's workroom lingered still, in small details and more distinct ones… even now, even eighteen years later. Old maps, rendered unreadable by merciless time, lay scattered on the broad oaken desk sitting under the window, its ornate legs carved with unobtrusive runes of power. The remaining antique cabinets held the last, broken pieces of occult paraphernalia, the splintered shards of glass, crystal and silver dispersed on the worn shelves, hated and scorned. On a round table, no longer there, a bowl of pears brought from Celestia had used to sit, once upon a time… or so he had been screamed at, on one of the lately-not-so-rare occasions when his mother went into a rancorous, tortured fit of temper.

His eyes were cool. Reserved. He refused to live her memories any longer.

Even if that meant leaving her alone to cope with her angry grief.

"Kay," he said.

"Here."

"We're leaving." With that, he turned around and quietly made it down the stairs.

He wasn't afraid of being caught. His mother couldn't move on her wheelchair without help – she couldn't move from her shoulders down at all. And she would rather die on the spot than show her weakness by attempting to do so. His father would never hear him, submerged as he was in his cosmological theories, now more than ever a refuge where the embittered mind of his wife nor his own humiliation could follow.

And Sealtriel… Sealtriel was sleeping. He would know when he awoke. He would have to understand and learn to fend for himself. He could do it. Idrielle had managed it – so could his brother.

He silently crossed the drawing room, empty at this hour of night, old splinters of furniture cluttering the corners. His only stop was at the piano in the middle of the parlour. Kay's soundless shadow halted next to him and patiently waited while he ran his fingers along the lacquered ebony, as fine and smooth as on the day it had been fashioned, one of the few rare things in the house whose emotional value was higher than the bills waiting to be paid. He would love to hit at least one key by way of saying goodbye, but that was something he couldn't afford. Not only it could wake his parents, it could wake Sealtriel, who had always been a light sleeper. And if, as was not a rare case in the past years, Roald Ebbryn and his mob of thugs were milling around the run-down estate again, eager to trail him in hopes of witnessing some imagined abhorrent crime that would finally get him hanged, he saw no reason to warn them about his presence.

And so it happened that there were no goodbyes for him. He took it as a sign of his new life, as an opportunity to carve out a place he deserved. The way of the world was that sacrifices were required for every gain worth having. Emotions, sentiment or conscience never succeeded in stopping his chosen course of action, for Idrielle belived that every man held responsibility for himself in the first place, and failing that, he wouldn't be deserving of faith of those he respected nor of deference of those under him.

A single red rose in a crystal vase, the last piece of crystal in the whole house, stood on top of the piano, its petals velvety and soft. He let his touch linger for a moment, then, without the faintest hesitation, headed to the side door. The thought of taking the rose never crossed his mind.

The evening air outside was fresh and smelled of first yellowing leaves. The sky was clear, the constellations bright on the backdrop of pure, deep black.

Idrielle smiled a little, gazing at the stars. Black was his favorite color. It didn't play at anything. It was as it was – simple, intense and elegant.

The walk to the gate was slow, but steady. He didn't hurry – he wasn't running away like some street urchin afraid of his father's belt. He was leaving. That made a difference. Leaving in the way befitting his rank and birth, like in travelling to other countries to see any interesting job offers, visiting strange places and ruins of this world to learn their secrets, making a journey to foreign cities to further his studies. He just didn't deem it necessary for his family to know.

From the shadow of the gateway he could see the street through the ornate grating of the residence's main portal. When he was small, he often imagined that it was a cell door. Beyond it lay the world that had imprisoned him, set him apart, only it didn't know that his prison was a way better place than any on the other side of the bars. He would sit with his books on top of the old cracked wall running around the estate, shaded from view by an old birch tree, and read about magic and the old Netherese Empire while the bustling activity of Iriaebor went on and on all around him, unaware.

Behind him, the house stood silent and still.

With his going, he knew he was taking the very last remnant of magic out of his mother's life along with himself. Sealtriel would never be a mage, and even if he wanted to, he would never reach the heights of Idrielle's talent. His mother knew it as well as Idrielle himself.

He was willing to fail to remember for this night.

Kay's thick snowy fur shone in the dark, the silver markings on his snout and back sparkling in the starlight.

"Shall I see if there's an ambush?" he asked.

"Of course there is one. They have been skulking around playing at witch-hunters for the last three nights in a row. I thought they were suspiciously quiet before that."

"Shall we hunt them?"

"If they come near me, yes."

Of course, Roald Ebbryn's motley pack was lurking in the shadows, deeply convinced of their utmost stealthiness. They could not see Idrielle and his familiar from their current vantage point, hidden as the two were between a small grove of trees in the garden and a gate pillar.

Idrielle wondered briefly if he should cast an invisibility spell upon himself, then decided against it. He didn't need to run any more. He was not six years old again. They couldn't do anything to him now, neither had they overtly tried since that day almost six years ago, when they for the first time truly understood that the magic he wielded was for real. There had been an occurrence another six years before that, but they'd been all too small then to remember it for very long.

Their worlds hadn't been the same from the beginning, but as time flowed by, they gradually grew so much different from each other that there necessarily came a point when none of them could actually see the other side as living, breathing beings any more.

They saw him as a wizard, a dark one at that, someone with a bad reputation and even blacker mind. What's more, he was right there in their midst, he did never really belong, and so, logically, he needed to be disposed of, the sooner the better.

He saw them as a nameless mass of faces that used to torture a helpless child, in those days when magic had kept refusing to serve him at such a young age. That was something most contemptible in his opinion, and so his scorn for them wasn't feigned. Yet, almost eighteen years old now, he still felt a slight sense of panic, a discomfort, anytime he was forced to interact with Roald Ebbryn in any way, and that thought angered and humiliated him both at once.

For the same reason, his reluctance to hide from them was only understandable. However, there was also plain common sense speaking, and it was telling him that if they could see him leave, they could also point out the direction of his journey to anyone who asked. Now, there wouldn't be many eager seekers following his trail, but one would, and it was the very one Idrielle didn't want around. Sealtriel had to find his own way now.

He took a side entrance which led him onto the main street mere feet behind his watchers.

No-one noticed. Idrielle was very good at moving silently.

The night was warm and a slight breeze tried to ruffle his plaited hair. The high towers of Iriaebor loomed on either side of the street, crooked and reaching into the wide dark sky as bent fingers of a spell-caster in the middle of a difficult incantation.

His step was light and leisure, deceptive as all of his life. Kay's alert senses scoured the shadows for any rustling stalkers.

And then they just ran out of any more streets to pass through. The road snaked across the rolling, golden fields toward a nearby forest, its firs softly creaking in the wind. Idrielle changed.

The telltale midnight shimmer of a black shiivi's coat glimmered in the moonlight. Large silver eyes with black vertical pupils graced the narrow head of a slender, beautiful horse-like being with a long, radiant mercury mane and small, round silver hooves. The tail resembled that of a unicorn, except there was one more tuft of argent hair halfway down its length. A silver mark of a stylized sun was branded on its forehead.

The illusion of tranquil elegance was shattered in the moment the tongue of a snake flickered out, revealing a pair of very long, vicious-looking vampire fangs, and Idrielle felt the familiar thrill of his senses shifting when the shiivi part of his soul broke free.

He didn't dash into the sky mad with freedom, however, as would have been usual for one of the demonic horses. Instead, he remained on the ground and set out in an even, measured lope. After a while, he turned north-east and headed for Avernon-l'Arque. Kay, the bag now fastened on his back, trotted alongside him, his ears erect and blue eyes glittering.


	2. A Minute Difference of Our Worlds

**A/N: **Here's how the story went on. :D Drop me a review, please, it is really nice to know that someone had spent some pleasant minutes reading about different worlds and magic and all we would like to see, hear and be. :D In the next chapter, we'll finally see what's that strange Avernon-l'Arque supposed to be and what it is that makes it so special... it and Idrielle both.

**II. A Minute Difference of Our Worlds**

It was raining.

The trees were moaning in the ruthless wind, their boughs creaking under the onslaught of the brewing storm. Autumn was definitely well on her way to the year's throne, a truth well marked by flames of red, orange and yellow burning in the forest's leaves. The sky was half overcast, clouds of dark blue and gray flooded by coppery light streaming from below. The sun was setting.

When Idrielle'd spotted the lonely inn at the border of a small cluster of houses, soaked to the bone and teeth chattering, he'd wished he could teleport himself the rest of the way right in that moment. But he couldn't. He'd had used up his shiivi teleportation magic just that morning by saving himself a tenday's worth of travelling to Cormyr's northern borders.

It wasn't the physical discomfort, however, that caused him to quicken his step, his hand firmly clenched in the dripping, heavy fur of Kay's back. It was that he simply couldn't afford to fall ill now.

He had never been exceedingly resilient and he knew it. Instead of denying something that was inherent to him, he recognized the risk of his condition and took it into consideration when planning for his strategy. The facts now were that he was beginning to feel a slight burn in his lungs and had been walking in the rain since sunrise, and if he didn't find a warm, dry shelter soon enough, chances were that he would faint somewhere along the way. In this weather, the roads were empty. Kay alone wouldn't be able to wake him. And that would definitely mean pneumonia.

He'd been forced to change his form back to human a few hours ago, when the land had become too populated for him to remain unnoticed. He wasn't happy about it, because he moved much slower at this rate and as a shiivi he wasn't as susceptible to common illnesses, but he had to reach Damara in time for the autumn entrance examinations, and neither random conflicts with authority nor fever would get him there.

He climbed the last muddy bank and stumbled to the door, leaning on its frame for a little while. Kay, after lightly leaping up the slope, halted beside him and looked at him with those concerned pieces of sapphire that passed for his irises.

"You act injured. Your eyes are glistening. I smell pain."

"I will be fine."

"You're slurring. I can't understand you. You want to meet a strange pack like this?"

"I can't stay outside."

"Then I will be with you. I'll protect you."

Idrielle put his shoulder against the door and let his weight push it open. Kay slipped inside and crouched low, an imperceptible growl rising at the back of his throat.

The common room of the inn was large and bursting at the seems. The air was heavy with talk, warmth and blurry, drunken comradeship, a faint whiff of perfume and wine drifting to the winter wolf's sensitive nostrils. Mirroring his master's unspoken but profound dislike of similar places, he clung to Idrielle's side, mistrustful and alert.

The moment the door closed behind them, the hulking inkeeper turned to greet any newcomers with a passing glance and a fleeting smile. Then his look registered the telltale snowy fur and icy blue eyes of Auril's sacred hunters.

He took half a step back and the smile melted off his face.

"Young master, you can't bring a winter wolf in here!"

His exclamation drew a handful of stares their way, and a few whispers ran among the tables. Most of the people, however, didn't even notice that someone had arrived above the laughter and clanging of cups. But two or three of the more well-travelled guests marked the austere black robes Idrielle was clad in and merely nodded their heads, all too familiar with the unfathomable ways of wizards.

"Good evening to you, sir. He is my bonded familiar. He won't do anything I wouldn't do myself."

It must have been Idrielle's voice. He never spoke loudly, his tone always polite and calm. The innkeeper couldn't see his eyes well enough through the long bangs reaching halfway down his nose, but there had been a subtle glint of that kind of quiet confidence that somehow manages to feel intense without appearing arrogant.

Also, he suspected, the wording had not been exactly random. An indistinct uneasiness settled over him.

"Well, then… if you say so… I'll just have to believe your word, won't I?" The large man tried a friendly smile, and although the young mage bowed his head slightly in return, perfectly gracious, the taverner hurriedly turned back to his business again.

Idrielle walked across the room with his back straight, his step brisk, as if there wasn't a healthier person on all the Prime Material. Only when he practically fell into a seat at a table in the far corner of the hall did he allow his head to rest against the old wooden wall. The hearth crackled brightly just next to him.

Kay gave him one glance, then glided his way through both the animate and inanimate legs. He stopped in front of the bar where the innkeeper was pouring a large pint of foamy ale to a red-bearded merchant dwarf sitting nearby.

"I won't do you harm, human," he said when he saw the apprehensive glimpse out of the corners of the landlord's nut-brown eyes. "Send mulled wine to Master's table. White. And send him game… food. Also, give me the keys of a suitable den for tonight."

The innkeeper - whose name was, by the way, Ilmar Brett - had been an inkeeper for the better part of his fifty years old life. He had seen his share of adventurers in his time, and had talked to many seasoned travellers. He knew that winter wolves' breath forced stones to crack and that they could even speak two languages…

He had never expected to be ordered around by one in the middle of his own inn.

**----**

The weather had been steadily growing worse for the past two tendays. Wind, cold, some of the roads north were reported to be rendered impassable by land-slides and uprooted trees.

And it had been raining.

The day Idrielle'd left Iriaebor had been the last warm, dry day of the year. Since then, his journey to Avernon-l'Arque had been considerably slowed down by the rain. Even his shiivi senses could not navigate him well enough through some of the storms.

He pondered this as he stared into the fire in the hearth, calculating how much time he had left until the entrance tests for this term were over.

He had to heal himself somehow.

"Hi there, sweetheart. Yer looking really wasted. Are ye alright?"

He lifted his gaze from the fireplace to find a pretty young waitress smiling at him. She had curly red hair, white skin and seemed to be sincerely curious about his answer.

"Actually, not all that much, good miss. I do not seem to bear this weather well."

Her grey eyes were bright with curiosity, and as she received no rebuff from this silent young man, she sat down opposite him, her work forgotten just for a little while. Just for a little while, she could pretend she was someone else, a great lady or a stalwart adventurer, utterly used to conversing with wizards, perhaps planning some important scheme even now…

"Oh! I'm sorry for that, sir. Where are ye travelling?"

Kay lay under the table, sleeping, one ear twitching at the sound of the conversation.

Idrielle had problems to concentrate on her words. The room was swimming in and out of focus all around him, the crackle of flames deafeningly loud.

"Sorry! Sorry! I didn't realize… yer truly ill, aren't ye, and here I go jabbering… can I help ye somehow? Should I bring ye something? Perhaps ye should be sleeping…"

Idrielle managed a weak nod.

"I'll help ye into yer room, okay? Let me…" She put her arms around his shoulders, relishing the feel of hot, firm muscles underneath the black turtleneck and robe, pulling him to the staircase.

In the shadows out of the common room, however, she headed to an inconspicous side door leading to the back yard of the inn.

Idrielle didn't react.

It had stopped raining sometimes during the night, but the sky hadn't cleared by any means. The clouds hung heavy and low in the sky, threatening to spill their vengeance upon the world soon.

The air was chilly.

"Boys," came a whisper from the red-haired barmaid. "Hey, lads, I have a real something this time. A spellslinger, can't stand on his feet. Bound to be riches for all!"

Her harsh whispering drew a small shadowy bunch of about six men, quickly slipping out of their various hiding places near the door.

"Are you nuts, Maejrie?" one of them hissed. "A wizard! As if that paladin you dragged out the last time wasn't enough!"

"He was _more_ than enough!" Maejrie snapped. "Yer living from the drunken hypocrite's gold even today, Ian Farrey, so shut up and rob this one blind!"

Idrielle reached up and touched Ian's forehead.

A silent cry burst out of the mugger's mouth as the dark lifedraining magic that no-one else remembered those days instantly established a bridge between their essences and umercifully yanked the robber's health forward and across.

Idrielle felt a surge of new life-energy hurtling through the gate of the link, clearing his senses and burning the fever away.

That was the moment when he took a knife stab into his left shoulder blade. He sensed it coming, however, and threw himself down, saving his spinal cord in the process. There was no time to cast another spell and his old rapier had stayed back in the inn with his bag so that he would appear even less threatening to the waitress.

He hit the ground back first and kicked out, effectively snapping his opponent's left kneecap, then rolled up mere few feet away, but it was enough. The man crumbled with a howl of pain, startling the other four who were very much inexperienced in the ways of true combat, buying Idrielle those much needed few seconds.

A shiivi's silvery fangs glistened in the soft, fragrant rain.

Maejrie tried to scream, but her throat was promptly ripped out, her life-force following the flow of her blood into the demon's essence.

Four to go.

The remaining thugs tried to run for it when they spotted the actual consequences of their rash choosing of victims, but there was no being on the Great Wheel that could outrun a shiivi.

Later that night, the stars were finally bright.


	3. The Secrets of My Pride

**A/N: **Pheeeeeeew... so... here it is at last. Finally. I really don't know what took me so long. :D I hope you enjoy this little darkish story - if so, please review and let me know. :) Meet Avernon-l'Arque and the Tie... and some weird magic, too. :D So snuggle in your chair and listen to a tale of ancient heritages and an improbable friendship...

**III. Secrets of My Pride**

"State your full name."

"Idrielle Stino."

"State your age."

"Seventeen."

"State your home plane and your home world."

"The Prime Material, Abeir-Toril."

The chamber was spacious, pleasant, its walls paneled in dark brown wood. A faint smell of new parchment, brass clockworks and exotic learnings lingered in the air. Two large windows looked out onto a wide avenue illuminated by tall, ornamental street lights with small balls of blue-white electricity burning in their lanterns made of avariel glass. The intricate brass machines were humming softly as their fragile components spun around and around.

The statuesque, ruby-haired clairvoyant conducting the entrance certifications frowned slightly.

"Is there something wrong?" the old dwarven president of the verifying commission asked. "Is he lying?"

"Not… exactly…" The tall, otherwordly female furrowed her brow. Idrielle noticed that her crimson pupils were slit like those of a cat. "But it is not the entire truth, either."

One of the other two commission members sitting with the dwarf behind the heavy beechen table, a young woman with auburn hair tied into a bun at the nape of her neck, smiled at Idrielle a little. An air of formality and a quiet freedom of thought mingled in the room, an insatiable curiosity harnessed to create new knowledge.

"Young man," the dwarf turned to the mage sitting in the characteristic red-cushioned chair of an applicant for admission. "There is no need for you to lie. The demiplane of Avernon-l'Arque is a most liberal city, and does not judge one's origins and intentions as long as the person in question is interested in study. These data will never leave our archives. It has never happened in the history of the University." His tone was strict but kind, like that of a well-meaning grandfather admonishing his talented grandchild for hindering their gift's coming into fruition.

Idrielle's expression didn't change. Kay was sitting right next to him, his ears flat against his head in displeasure, his snowy fur faintly bristled. He kept silent, however.

"The Prime Material, Abeir-Toril."

The clairvoyant nodded this time.

"State your racial origin."

This was the truly tricky part. Idrielle didn't even blink as he slipped into the Dreaming for a bit, his eyes taking on the barest golden glint.

"Human."

The clairvoyant looked at him for a moment, then, absentmindedly, nodded again. The committee never noticed.

"As of 1361 DR in the lands of Toril, allowed to participate in entrance examinations of the Faculty of Occult Sciences in the university demiplane of Avernon-l'Arque."

**-----**

"He's a strange one, that boy, is he not?" Erie Doven l'Arque ponderingly poured himself more white wine out of an ornate decanter fashioned of thick, blood-red crystal.

"Many who study here are, Lord Protector," Raelvar Ihra replied shortly, surreptitiously looking out of the window and pulling the dark gold cowl of his cloak lower over his face. "More than forty percent of our population consists of extraplanar races."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what are you getting at?" The archmage turned around, his sharp golden eyes irritated.

The Lord Protector didn't notice. Raelvar's emotions never left the dark privacy of his hood.

"Didn't you hear all the talk? Although, 'talk' is probably a way too strong word for this kind of unclear gossip. What about half-outlined, vague whisperings?"

"I do not have the time for this. If he did break the city law, you can have him arrested or exiled. Otherwise, Avernon-l'Arque wasn't established so that we could pry into our students' business."

"I had been elected for this position to take care of the University. That includes the safety measures as well. Even more so because of our constantly fluctuating population. Students come, students go. Did you hear how much he supposedly knows about the old Netherese Empire?"

"So what? He specializes in ancient nations? That's none of my business! I am not even one of the Nine Professors. Just passing through! Yeah, that's me, an extraplanar freak, Doven, a 'strange' person indeed. Give me a break."

"I did not mean to upset you. I am just curious about that young man. There were some rumours… So I have checked him out. He strongly gravitates toward energy necromancy, and is damn good at it, too. Also studies divination and is particularly interested in history. An exceptionally talented student, I hear from every corner. He doesn't talk much, keeps to himself most of the time…"

"So… let me get it straight. You are bothered that a quiet, clever youth studies some of our licensed disciplines."

Erie Doven l'Arque sipped some of the strong, dry wine, pondering. "If you want to put it that way… yes."

**-----**

It took Idrielle almost half a year until he finally found out what the symbol meant.

He deemed it highly ironic – and more than a little offensive, truth be told – that after months of studious searching, it was completely by accident.

It was Tarsakh, and the last of snow was melting on the graceful streets of Avernon-l'Arque. Brass conveyances powered by steam channeled through complicated engines from miniscule summoned storms raging under their bonnets whirred quietly as they crossed the patterned avenues. Those of the diverse residents who weren't rushing head over heels for their afternoon lectures were slowly walking along the pavements, talking, discussing… well, just a different expression for arguing, really, but since it was all meant in an academic spirit, nobody minded.

The First Library of Arcana was full of theology students. Those from the Faculty of a Hundred Faiths had been given an assignment to conduct a complete research of an artifact commonly associated with their chosen deity, and for many of them, arcane magic was an infinite well of uncomprehensible headaches. Only acolytes of such gods as Mystra, Azuth, Corellon Larethian or Arkhavje were smiling smugly, grinning as they leafed through their familiar arcanabulas, finally utilizing their occult talents.

So it would probably come as no surprise that the atmosphere was anxious… smothering… fraught with panic... fairly typical for that time of the year. There were just three days left to finish the task.

Idrielle had never thought he would have to fight his way through chairs full of swearing Moradin's dwarves, helpless githyanki banging their foreheads against the tables and smirking elves taunting miserable Helven's followers in a place normally favoured by wizards. On one occasion, he was forced to pass a brass dragon and a metal elemental arguing about the correct pronunciation of the word 'belief' in Loross, the elegant language of the old Netherese archwizards.

Idrielle felt no urge to inform them that they were both wrong. Instead, he slipped around the corner, unnoticed as was his custom when he wanted to remain that way, and found an isolated study chamber away from the crowd. He sat down at a fragile ebony desk typical for many official buildings in the city, its single slender leg engraved with interlacing fragments of extraplanar maps.

He couldn't stand masses. Masses didn't like to think, and where there was a lack of sound thinking, facts were difficult to convey. He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about the noise, either, but he assumed it couldn't be helped in the middle of a horde of disoriented novices, so he simply didn't occupy himself with fruitless exasperation.

He fixedly stared at the tall, neat shelves full of miscellaneous history reports, occult theories, philosophical appraisals and grimoires heavy and light, some of them bound in studded leather, some in velvet, other in glass – all of them stubbornly refusing to yield the key to his one major obsession besides his studies since he had come to Avernon-l'Arque.

The shelves stared back.

It had to be _somewhere_. His attempts to determine whether it related to dark magic or to a general, merely more obscure source of the Art had all been unsuccesful so far, the same as his investigations throughout the University, discreetly asking the likely people. And yet, he was still fairly sure the dweomer he was trying to identify, albeit rare and surely dangerous, was not perceived as forbidden, nor was it under any kind of taboo.

He was at his wits' end. Absent-mindedly, his slender fingers brushed aside his bright golden bangs and softly touched the silver mark on his forehead. He had been living with it for whole six years. Those six years were his, they belonged to him, to his life, to his allotted time. He was not willing to share. It was absolutely unacceptable that he wouldn't figure out its exact meaning.

He regarded the books with a renewed defiance, almost as if challenging them to a duel.

A faint rustle of paper whispered in the air.

A tall rack littered with old manucripts too fragile to be stored away with other documents came crashing down to his right suddenly, the dark wood splintering with a loud snap as it gave way under the weight of someone's stumble.

Idrielle started, then immediately jumped aside, rolling his chair over as he fell, sharp pieces of ebony narrowly missing his face.

For a moment, the world disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Then the sound of a muted chuckle sneaked in through the indistinct hum in Idrielle's ears, low and hysterical, the laughter of a man in the nightmare of confused madness.

The old rapier Idrielle'd saved from the ruins of his family's life went back into its sheath as he slowly climbed to his feet, his eyes intense on the figure heavily leaning on the wreck of paper, ink and half-toppled planks.

A tall male in ripped up claret robes with stunning amber eyes flecked with red clutched a torn piece of wrinkled parchemnt in his pale, almost transparent hands, his longish crimson hair stringy with sweat. His face, once fine and sharp, was now wasted and worn, pallid beyond the wildest belief.

He was laughing.

Idrielle stood, wary, just looking, gauging the situation, his mind quickly calculating the fastest possible way to kill if the man proved to be an obstacle. Something seemed familiar about him, as if the wizard had seen him – or someone very much alike – before.

The stranger paused for a moment, fixing his stare on the sheet in his grasp with a bewildered expression of utter surprise.

"My, my," he muttered. "Seems it had not gone so well after all…"

Idrielle kept silent. He was not afraid. He could always Remember how to be Iruan if there were any need to defend himself and he had no time to cast one of his more or less regular spells.

The other man began to tremble gently, his glazed eyes losing even the last bit of their focus. He went more pale still. Went he next spoke, it was as if his body and the source of his voice were very far away from each other.

"They were right… the reason was not good enough… I'll tell you something, kid," and he lifted his astonishing gaze from the page to Idrielle's own deep, silver-flecked emerald eyes, both of them wise beyond their years, "the Tie was not meant to bind two people together. Never try to bind two souls…"

In that moment, Idrielle remembered where he knew that man from. The ruby-haired clairvoyant who'd verified him in Eleint had a lover – he'd seen the two of them on the stairs of the Faculty of Cosmology the day after he'd passed the entrance examinations and had been admitted to the University for further studies of occult sciences. He was of the same race as she, cat-like in their grace and appearance, quick to anger, but with an incredible knack for finding lost things.

Their looks locked across the small room. "It is also called the Shackle, you know," the clairvoyant's lover said, softly. "And now I understand… we are truly going to be one now…"

A light, unseen wind wafted through the chamber, bearing subtle mist on its wings. For just a second, the mist formed a familiar symbol of a stylized sun in the air, and then all of the carmine mage's breath left his body, a ghostly silhouette of steam copying his every feature, every detail shaping out of his last exhalation. After a while, it dissipated with a soft sigh, leaving nothing except for the piece of wrinkled parchment and a still body behind.

Idrielle slowly walked to the crumpled page and lifted it from the ground.

**-----**

Saelmma stood in front of her mirror, brushing the last stray strand of her shining ruby hair behind her slightly feline ear. Vealle was due to arrive every minute now, and she smiled at her radiant reflection, pleased with her predatory beauty tonight. She wore a long blood-red evening dress and extraordinary ruby jewellery imported from Aphienta, the plane of untamed wilderness, passion and fierce love that all of a fiery heart were welcome to share.

All the men in the opera would try to win her affection, but her eyes would be Vealle's and Vealle's alone, and they would laugh and listen to the haunting music, and perhaps… perhaps today is going to be the day he will finally ask her to be his Hunter.

A light, unseen wind wafted through the chamber, bearing subtle mist on its wings.


	4. Born to Darkness, Wielding Night

**A/N: **Here it is. This chapter literally... ow. Don't ask. I have not slept for five nights.

Enjoy! If you spared some minutes of your life to read whatever happened next, perhaps you could review and tell me so. Idrielle will be glad, too, even if he just nods politely. Such is his way. :)

Please, excuse my grammar, it is probable that it is far from perfect. :D **  
**

**IV. Born to ****Darkness, Wielding Night**

The street was dark, ominous, weighing heavy on shoulders of a simple citizen. Ivra walked briskly down one of the side alleys, trying not to turn around too often.

I am imagining it. Just being paranoid. There is no-one here but me.

And my fear… shut up. Shut up. Keep moving. The guild is waiting.

She clutched the book more firmly beneath her cloak, counting her steps as she passed the decrepit seedy houses, one by one. Turn left. Right again. Six streets more, and you're home. No-one saw you, no-one knows, the fat fool himself didn't even dream what it was he'd bought at the auction last week. It's my job. I am paid to steal for my guildmaster. It has never bothered me before, this… unease. Just being jumpy. It's alright…

But the gadget of her mind wouldn't let her rest.

Magic missing… wizards dead… someone new in the game… Alaith the Spider resigning from his position as the head of Helmadala's thieves' guild. Occult extortion.

The word spread throughout the central Damara in the past months, someone new was trying to control the illicit magical business in the area, and so far, nobody had been able to stand up to them.

Ivra wasn't exactly happy that she had been sent to steal a grimoire in times like these. What if that someone decided she would be better off as corpse… or undead corpse… or a soul imprisoned in the gem of a necklace? She'd once heard about such a spell, and that particular fate scared her more than the most gruesome death she could imagine. At least, once it would be over, she could move on to whatever place awaited sly, reckless rogues such as her. But to stay forever and ever as a mere breath of consciousness without the slightest chance to feel, see or hear anything, just her and her memories…

Inadvertently, she shivered and quickened her pace.

Three streets to go.

"Where is it you'd be going, miss, this late at night, all alone to boot?"

Don't stop. You can fight if you can't run. The voice was calm, sneering, sounding like a farmer's son was trying to play it tough. Surely no sophisticated wizard would have an accent like that.

"I believe my good associate here asked you something, my dear demoiselle," another voice took her aback, this one clear, younger and right in front of her. "My advice for you would be to stop, good miss. Immediately."

A wiry, thin youn man with blazing ginger hair stepped out from the darkness of a side alleway, a longsword in his left hand. Behind her, she could hear heavy steps of the first speaker, and as she glanced at him with the orner of her eye, she saw a lumbering male with bald head and long fiery beard, with hands and bare feet bigger than appropriate to his build. He didn't look entirely human.

Ivra halted, her hands going to the twin shortswords at her narrow hips. She could take them. One, two…

"Stop this nonsense."

A third voice. Quiet, reserved, younger than both of the previous men's, yet more intense than a command screamed at top of another's lungs. A figure dressed in simple, austere black robes with a high collar strode out of the shadows into the flickering orange light of the single torch sputtering on the wall of a nearby house.

His hair was golden and blonde, neatly plaited into a thick braid reaching his shoulder blades. Ivra couldn't see his eyes through the long bangs shading his forehead. An ancient, elegant rapier hung from his belt, and a gold pentagram, a holy symbol of Auril the Frostmaiden and a collection of lockpicks twinkled around his neck. His skin shone bronze in the shimmering flame.

The two jackasses docilely stepped back, eyeing her with meaningful smiles all the while. They didn't sheathe their weapons.

The black-robed wizard stopped one pace from her, folding his hands behind his back. Ivra estimated his age to be not more than some months past eighteen.

"My name is Idrielle Stino," he said in that same calm, business-like voice. "Pleased to meet you, miss Czarre. I have a trade proposal for you."

Despite his unaffected politeness, he was profoundly disquieting, in some unidentifiable, matter-of-fact sort of way.

What did one say to something like that? Perhaps they didn't know she had the tome?

"I already have a job. I have nothing to offer you. I will be going now. Goodbye."

He wasn't angry, he wasn't smiling, he wasn't blank – his face always held that polite, stand-offish attention, as if he waited for her to say something beneficial to his cause. His slender hands moved from behind his back to evenly cross themselves on his chest. "Is that so. I will try to correct myself. It is the change of your employer, miss Czarre, or a very long walk indeed. So exhausting, perhaps, that you will have to leave your body behind to make it."

She stared at him for a moment, then drew her shortswords in a blinding arc, hoping to fight her way through one of them and run with all of her might. She had no chance-

"A wise choice. If you want to be in Carceri by the morning, you truly better started moving."

She froze again. The mere mention of the afterlife in the hellish plane of prisoners, rogues, thieves and minor deceivers was enough for her to begin considering a refreshing change of her money source.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing you have not already done before. Your pay will be raised." He set off down the alleyway, motioning to her with a small gesture to follow him. The thugs fell in step behind the two of them, finally sheathing their blades.

Well, at least he's quite handsome and well-mannered, Ivra was comforting herself, trying not to think about the fact that exactly those types often turned out to be the darkest scheming bastards with totally unpredictable streaks, especially if they were wizards. And they don't know about the grimoire. I could flog it at the black market for a pretty few platinum shards.

"Oh, yes. I would have almost forgotten. Hand me Alvestair's grimoire, miss Czarre."

** ---- **

Ever since Idrielle'd found out about the Shackle, he had been wondering if it, perchance, could be the very thing he'd far-sightedly prayed for that would be strong enough to bring his Dreaming under more firm control. He knew he was running out of time. The Lord Protector was beginning to gain a little too much interest in him, and albeit there was no evidence – Idrielle was too intelligent to let himself be caught – the waters had been stirred already, and it had been, metaphorically speaking, Iruan's fault.

The whole incident had just been a final peak of the gradually cumulating bad luck that his heritage had been intermittently plaguing him with for the past few months. He had been forced to fall back on the Dreaming more often than he would have liked, which was never a good thing if he wanted to remain discreet, but it was the last time that truly proved to be a… demonstration. He knew it couldn't have been helped then if he wanted to remain breathing.

It still irked him.

It'd happened a tenday ago, two months after persuading Ivra Czarre to join forces with him rather than with the more or less insignificant rogues' guild in Gelvara and Stravin Pherle as the squirming little viper's poisonous tongue.

Idrielle was at their small headquarters centered in the very much inconspicous part of Gelvara at the time. The town was ideal for similar kinds of activity, for it was large enough that one's interests were lost easily in the bustle, yet quiet enough that one didn't have to worry about shrewd competition or intelligent constabulary.

He was perusing one of Ivra's reports in the common room when the door exploded.

A squadron of Gelvara's militia burst into the chamber.

The first thing that crossed Idrielle's mind was that someone had betrayed him. There were some thirty guards in the room, albeit inexperienced ones, and he felt a slight sense of alarm washing over him. Area-affecting spells most certainly weren't his expertise, and besides himself, only Ivra and Ghirin sat lounging in the official living room, leisurely needling one another.

But it was impossible. He never erred. There was no-one who'd double-cross him.

Ivra exploded into motion at the mere glimpse of the guards, her twin shortswords flashing in the fickle glow of a near fireplace as she made a stand in front of Idrielle's desk, her hands crossed at her wrists, ready to skewer the first one who'd dare to take one step in his direction.

He would have probably been immensely surprised, but didn't have the time.

"Where is he?" one of the guardsmen shouted. His armour marked him as a sergeant.

Idrielle's indistinct gesture put stop to Czarre's heated curse.

"Whom do you seek? This is a civil house."

"Do not play dumb on me! Strezia! We saw him enter this house only a second ago! Men, search the room!"

In that instant, it all became clear to him in one quick, cold flash. And with it, the cool understanding dawned that nothing short of complete annihilation of those thirty would save his designs now.

Strezia was Ghirin's younger brother, and Idrielle couldn't count all the times he'd expressively said that the organization's headquarters were not nursery. The fact that Strezia was only three years younger than he didn't seem to have any particular impact on the mage's orders. However, he'd allowed Ghirin to show his sibling a secret route into the building through the roof, that was to be used only in the most dire of circmustances. Ghirin doted on his little brother and Idrielle knew better than to interfere with his operatives' families.

That he would be so suicidally stupid and let himself be chased by an entire unit of local militia never once crossed Idrielle's mind. That he would run straight for the single sacrosanct haven possible and lead them directly – foolish and unsuspecting, oh, the irony – to the only actual centre of illegality a tenday's ride in any direction afterwards was a nightmare which had transcended the realms of possibility the second it had been born. He'd thought Strezia valued his life more than that.

Ghirin guaranteed the headquarters' safety with his own life, and he knew it. He went pale the instant the sergeant mentioned his brother's name.

The guards moved forward.

From behind the armoire, a pair of guilty green eyes peeked.

Ivra crouched.

Idrielle did the only thing he could at that time.

_Norieva. How was it like then?_

And his mind lurched, then took its addictive refuge within the Dreaming, retracing its steps down the line in a flash, to his birth, to the birth of his mother, then his grandfather and his mother before him, all the way back, back, back, until it was suddenly_ there_ – seeing, hearing, _living_ all that was now lost.

Remembering.

His eyes flared golden, no irises, no whites.

"_Aru' siev noinne vel illieve dos. Vel allea ennoi 'zes? Ore aive soellnie cael Iruan Lharra en seire ssta?_"

His voice, always so calm and impassive, grew frosty with contempt, an unshakable arrogance no longer seen in this world, for those able to support it with their deeds had long ago turned to fragile motes of dust in the autumn wind.

His voice rang with power.

For a moment, everyone in the room halted.

Then an emerald inferno broke loose.

Idrielle stared into space. He had killed all thirty guardsmen in one or two explosions of magic. No-one knew what he had been hiding in the old house and no-one from his people had been arrested, but now there was talk.

Golden eyes, green fire, unknown languages…

He was willing to admit that Avernon-l'Arque was a fascinating place and that he had learned much from her in the past year. But his presence there was becoming increasingly risky. Even if Erie Doven l'Arque didn't have the vaguest notion about his sophisticated illegal activities, he still suspected _something_, like a bloodhound sniffing the air for the indistinct scent of mystery. It had not occured to him that Idrielle Stino and the unknown entity holding their own with a steely resolve in the occult underworld in the vicinity of the university demiplane were the same person, but he seemed determined to find out more about the young mage nonetheless.

That was something Idrielle had no mind of allowing.

Of course, the citizens of the University didn't care overmuch about what was transpiring beyond the Gates of their small world. Albeit officially situated in Damara, it was only the portals leading into the demiplane itself that were truly standing on Toril's soil, and although one could see the tall buildings and spires of Avernon-l'Arque from the taiga where the Gates had been erected almost as clearly as if the city were a mere hand's reach away indeed, the faint crystal-like dome spanning the metropolis suggested otherwise. Its soft gleam in the harsh sun of the north spoke clearly enough that inside lay literally another world in and out of itself, as distant as a reflection of stars in a mirror. Such was the way of planar travels that one often couldn't touch what was seemingly a simple caress away.

But now it was Eleasias again.

And such was the way of Idrielle Stino that he unerringly knew when the time had come to tread down the road once again.

**---- **

"Stino, Stino…" Ivra mumbled under her breath as she kept rummaging through the pile of archive records, "I'm sure I've heard that name before…"

Alas, she was no expert where academic research was concerned, and so far, all of her efforts had been to naught. She didn't know where to begin her search in the first place, and she was just shifting the heaps of paper around, cursing silently, for she'd measured the long way to Avernon-l'Arque in her free time and she had no-one else to blame but her own curiosity.

Curiosity and… well… a crush.

Okay, so it was out. She was a mature person. It was natural to like other people.

People perhaps. How about cold, _always_ immaculately polite wizards who treated her as if she were a lady… and at the same time made it obviously clear that they had no interest in ladies?

He was driving her mad. And that wolf of his, too.

"Stino… I'm sure it is here somewhere… let me see…"

A door creaked nearby.

Out of reflex more than any actual need to hide, Ivra crouched low in her chair and cut down all the noise she was making.

Two people were talking in the adjoining chamber, and they could have gone drown themselves for all she cared, were it not for that name.

"…still not decided to leave that Stino boy alone?"

"Not until I'll know. I know that name. I'm sure I know that name…"

Ivra peeked around the corner, silent as death.

A slim male in golden robes, hood drawn low over his face, lounged in one of the dusty chairs by the heavy ebony table, accompanied by a tall, powerful man with short-cropped chocolate hair already streaked with a handful of silver. She recognized the latter as the current Lord Protector of Avernon-l'Arque.

"Well, be my guest, you ox. I don't see why _I_ have to sit here while you play at a detective…"

There was some rustling of parchement and creaking of not-so-old leather.

"I thought mages were supposed to be curious…"

"Yeah, well, I'm an _archmage_. I have seen all there is to see."

The whisper of pages turning. "Do not be such a whiner, Raelvar… help me, and you can get out of here sooner."

"Oh, all right… the Nine Hells is _this_."

For a moment, there was only silence.

"So_ that_ is where I knew the name from," the Lord Protector muttered. "Karoel Stino… one of the greatest archmages to walk the planes some eighteen years ago."

Raelvar pensively rubbed his chin. "I have heard about her… she was unnaturally talented, that she was… a real ace in evocation and a planewalker to boot. Her maiden name was Lharra, if I'm not mistaken. An ancient family… she was known to use strange and very old spells. A wicked temper she had. Quick to anger and freezingly proud – despised almost everyone and everything."

"You speak of her in past tense. Did she die?"

"No… something worse. She became paralyzed. A red dragon's tail smashed her against a wall during one of her expeditions. They were fighting one on one."

"She… cannot cast any more?"

"She is dead from her shoulders down." Raelvar's voice was flat, hiding the silent horror all mages suffered when they thought about losing their passion. "Allegedly, she has been confined to a wheelchair ever since."

Lharra… Ivra had heard about an invincible female archmage bearing that name. Content that she finally unraveled the mystery of Idrielle's parents, she glanced down at her currently opened book. She was certain she had seen that surname just a minute ago. Quickly, she flipped through the tome, searching the familiar illustration that had caught her eye the first time around.

There it was. A pencil drawing of a spectacular city from old times, floating in the clouds, with perfect tiny people and wonderful, elegant buildings, taller than anything she had ever witnessed.

The chapter title read '_Norieva, the Golden Winter'_.

_Many sages argue that Norieva must have been one of the most stunning enclaves at the height of the ancient Netherese Empire. However, her splendour is the only fact about her that we can deem certain – there are almost no records about her origins, history nor her eventual fall. Unlike with some other Netherese cities, Norieva's archives have never been found._

_Despite that, some tidbits of information have indeed reached us. It is said that the Golden Winter was founded by an Archwizard of immense power that rivaled Karsus' own, who went by the name of Iruan Lharra. According to our sources, he was a cold and scornful man, full of frosty pride and even more arrogant than most of his colleagues, but fiercely loyal, he protected those he favoured with his cool love with the ferocity of a snow tiger. He lived for many years before he disappeared, although he never embraced lichdom._

_Iruan Lharra had a wife, Leovier Fhaelle, who died during childbirth at the age of twenty-eight._

Ivra carelessly slammed the book shut. She had no idea what all the history jazz was about, nor did she care. That wasn't why she'd come here.

She stood up, smiling. Perhaps she should go see Idrielle now. It would be interesting to watch how the ever-so-composed wizard reacted to his mother's name.

It would be interesting to watch how her expression changed when she found the headquarters empty.

The old book, entitled '_Netheril: the Truths and the Myths_', lay forgotten on the table.

It was patient. It could wait.


End file.
